


Unwillingly Livin' la Vida Loca

by SomniScripti



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, For Want of a Nail, Gen, I'm Bad At Tagging, Out of Character, Slytherins Being Slytherins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:46:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26159002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomniScripti/pseuds/SomniScripti
Summary: This story is the same as before. Tom's first meeting with the future headmaster of Hogwarts runs the predestined course, the words from the original script are uttered without a single err.Until his thoughts stray from the pattern penned by the hand of the original writer of his fate.This story. It is the same as before?I shall endeavor to not die by my own Killing Curse because I could not just pick a baby up and yeet it out of a window.Dear God,If you do exist, please give me a refund on this life. Quite frankly and indelicately put, it is shit.Sincerely,TomP.S. Suffer through finding which Tom I am out of the all of the other Toms that exist.(This time Tom Riddle has a few extra memories to go along for the ride. Dumbledore underestimated how much an orphan boy would do to live. Abraxas in the future wonders if his Lord has finally lost what marbles they have left.)
Relationships: Abraxas Malfoy & Voldemort, Death Eater Characters & Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry/Tom Riddle, Hogwarts Students & Hogwarts Students, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Tom Riddle & Salazar Slytherin
Comments: 3
Kudos: 4





	Unwillingly Livin' la Vida Loca

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Harry Potter or its associated works. Those belong to their respective authors and Rowling. My creativity is, however, mine.

“How do you do, Tom?” asked the oddly dressed man, eyes twinkling.

How bizarre. His strange polka-dotted purple suit may fit the peculiar aura he has, but it certainly does him no favors in adhering to ordinary conventions. I clear away that thought and give an empty placid smile in return. As long as I play the part of an ordinary boy, as distasteful as the idea is, he will have to leave eventually. 

In the end, this man is no different from the rest. Perhaps it is typical of orphans to ingratiate themselves to visitors in hopes of getting adopted but I no longer have any such absurd notions. Why would I fling myself so degradingly at people who can not even recognize true worth?

A hand is stretched out to me.

What? This peculiar feeling of nostalgia and foreboding, does this mean I should not reach out in return? Surely a handshake has no meaning. 

I ignore my irrational apprehension. They mean nothing.

The man’s hand is warm, feeling similar to parchment. Yet I have never held parchment before. It must be my imagination then, what I believe parchment would feel like. He lets go of me, finally, and I resist the urge to wipe my hand, the beginnings of a headache blooming behind my eyes.

_Wrong. This is wrong._

A familiar scraping of wood against wood shakes me out of my daze. This stranger has drawn up the only chair in my room and sat down in it. My regard for him drops to an earth-shattering low. Indeed, I do not believe it can go any lower. In the impossible case that it does, surely it would barrel through the earth and break out the other side, serving as a lifetime's worth of excitement to the native wildlife there.

What is this? I am not habitually inclined to make outrageous commentary within the privacy of my mind.

None of that matters. I only wish that this increasingly irritating man would leave already so he would cease disturbing my quiet and order.

_So why am I so excited?_

Leaning forward, the offensive presence introduces himself,

“I am Professor Dumbledore.”

If he were dressed in more respectable clothing—or one of those cliche white lab coats, not that I know anything about that—and carried a clipboard, I would be inclined to believe this self-proclaimed Professor was a doctor. Both my position and his have uncomfortable parallels to a hospital scene where I am the pitiful and infirm patient.

“Professor?” I repeat, eyes narrowing and words dripping with spite, “Is that like ‘doctor’? What are you here for? Did she get you in to have a look at me?”

Of course, _of course,_ this is why this man is here. Did that self-important Matron not have her fill of my suffering when she had me exorcised? Since she can not claim that I am possessed by the devil, she is now looking to lock me in an asylum?

I am _not_ mad.

_Actually, I—_

“No, no,” the liar has the gall to continue his falsehoods with an indulgent smile.

Screw weaving a pretty picture of a piteous orphan boy, I am sick and utterly tired of this continued harassment. Someone special like me should never have to endure unfounded attacks on my person like this. 

I sneer, nothing is redeemable about this fool,

“I don’t believe you. She wants me looked at, doesn’t she? Tell the truth!”

The last three words are imbued with an authority that can not be ignored. We shall see who is the lesser one here. As if I would stand by and let him continue his feeble charades.

And yet, my order is ignored without a struggle. No, without even expending the most meager amount of effort. Whoever this man is, he is not like the rest. He is not part of the useless masses that plod along meaninglessly outside of my room. 

Glaring will solve nothing then, so I withdraw my obvious displeasure and eye this intruder of my space with wariness. 

“Who are you?” I settle with asking.

He does not stop his infuriating smile, though his eyes twinkle a little less brightly,

“I have told you. My name is Professor Dumbledore and I work at a school called Hogwarts. I have come to offer you a place at my school—your new school, if you would like to come.”

So I _was_ right. There is nothing special about him, his resistance was merely a fluke. Angrily pushing myself off the bed, I back away from him, already running through different plans of action in getting rid of this man.

Meanwhile, I will stall for time,

“You can’t kid me! The asylum, that’s where you’re from, isn’t it? ‘Professor’, yes, of course—well, I’m not going, see? That old cat’s the one who should be in the asylum. I never did anything to little Amy Benson or Dennis Bishop, and you can ask them, they’ll tell you!”

Whether or not a single bit of what he claims is true, nothing good will come of revealing myself to him. Perhaps this is a test? Someone found out about me and they are determining if I really am a freak. They want concrete proof. I refuse to give him anything to work with; some of the orphanage staff are sympathetic to me so if I am loud enough, surely one of them will intervene on my behalf.

“I am not from the asylum,” Dumbledore, if that is truly his name, replies with long-suffering patience, “I am a teacher and, if you will sit down calmly, I shall tell you about Hogwarts. Of course, if you would rather not come to the school, nobody will force you—”

Indeed. It would certainly behoove whoever tries to refrain from using force lest I find myself in the mood to provide a very explicit example of _why._

“I’d like to see them try,” I mutter under my breath with venom. They will end up like the others.

“Hogwarts,” Dumbledore continues, ignoring my previous statement, “is a school for people with special abilities—”

“I am not mad!”

Hopefully, that was loud enough to summon someone, the faster they arrive, the less likely I am to demonstrate my extreme displeasure.

How daft does he think I am? At this point, he may very well be the mad one.

Dumbledore suppresses a sigh,

“I know that you are not mad. Hogwarts is not a school for mad people. It is a school of magic.”

And that, _that_ right there, stops me dead in my tracks, all previous thoughts abandoned. It was as if my mind, usually ceaseless in its thinking, has stopped functioning.

Magic? Impossible. Dare I even imagine? Yet, it all adds up, does it not?

“Magic?” I echo my thoughts aloud, trying to determine if Dumbledore is lying. His eyes reveal nothing.

“That’s right,” he affirms after a beat, eyes shifting in a manner I have learned to associate with truthfulness. 

If so, then it _changes everything._

“It’s...it’s magic, what I can do?” a delirious kind of excitement bubbles up from my chest. The possibilities! An entire school dedicated to someone like me.

_Caution. I should be cautious. Where have I seen this before?_

“What is it that you can do?”

_Lie. I must lie like my life depends on it._

“All sorts,” I admit in a whisper, ignoring the irritating thoughts that have been making themselves known throughout the entirety of this fortuitous encounter, “I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want them to do, without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to.”

_I have said far too much._

My voice shakes, legs weak and trembling. What was that? Sitting down on the bed, I try to focus.

“I knew I was different. I knew I was special. Always, I knew there was something.”

_Now, I have reached the point of no return._

“Well,” Dumbledore says after a beat, smile nowhere to be seen and gaze intense, “you were quite right.”

Did I mess up? No, no I did not. It is only natural for those that are special to rule over the dull-witted masses. I have only retaliated for the wrongs done to me first. He is just surprised at how capable I am.

_False. I have made the single greatest mistake of my life. Well, one of them._

No, I have not made a mistake.

“You are a wizard,” he tells me.

I turn to him, smiling euphorically,

“Are you a wizard too?”

_Duh._

Shut up. Shut _up!_

“Yes, I am.”

“Prove it,” I demand, once again injecting my voice with indisputable authority because if it turns out to be a ploy all along, this day will not end well for him, “Tell the _truth._ ”

_How many wrong moves must I make?_

Eyebrows raised, Dumbledore’s expression only grows cloudier,

“If, as I take it, you are accepting your place at Hogwarts—”

“Of course I am!” I interrupt him impatiently.

“Then you will address me as ‘Professor’ or ‘sir’.”

Ah. That is indeed a consideration I must make. Adults generally believe their old age is something respectable rather than a sign of how far they have fallen.

It irks me. However, this conversation will get nowhere if I do not comply. No doubt wizards have their own customs. It would do me well to learn them so I can further my own agenda. Ingratiating myself to these people—there must be reasonably many for a school to be established—would be the best course of action since I know nothing about them. As humiliating as it is, flattery works wonders. I will do my best to reach the height of power needed for me to never have to cater to the whims of others but the other way around.

“I’m sorry, sir,” I say with extreme care, changing my tune completely, “I meant—please, Professor, could you show me—?”

Words are merely that, words. I am good with words. Nothing suffers except my pride, although that is a repulsive slight in and of itself.

My surprise when Dumbledore draws a stick out of an inner pocket and points it at my wardrobe is immeasurable. That is to say, I was mildly surprised and completely disappointed.

Then the wardrobe bursts into flames.

I am no longer disappointed, but furious. All of my possessions—beyond the bed, the desk with a few books on top, and the bed he is currently sitting in—are all in that wardrobe. And this man just _set it on fire._

As soon as I jump to my feet, the fire extinguishes, leaving no trace that there ever was a flame behind. Looking between Dumbledore and my wardrobe, I come to the conclusion that the stick he wields has significance.

“Where can I get one of them?” I ask, forgetting the thin veneer of politeness from earlier that I had attempted to maintain. It should not be an issue. Children are children and it was not as if I was particularly rude either.

“All in good time,” Dumbledore assures, his smile and twinkling eyes back in full force, causing my stomach to sink with an overpowering sense of dread, “I think there is something trying to get out of your wardrobe.”

Trying to get out of my wardrobe? I do not know of anything that—it can not be that, right?

_It definitely is._

“Open the door,” he entreats, inviting as if it were a choice, words full of mocking expectation.

I hesitate, but to refuse would most certainly result in detrimental consequences, I need Dumbledore to like me. To a certain extent, at least. Crossing the room and opening the door of the wardrobe, the cardboard box of my suspicions rattles on the topmost shelf, damning. 

“Take it out.”

I comply readily enough, but the box is kept at a distance. Who knows what could be wrong with it? I certainly do not. For all I know, it could explode in my hands.

“Is there anything in that box that you ought not to have?”

So that is what he was aiming for. Should I lie? Looking back up at Dumbledore does nothing in the ways of helping me determine what he is playing at. All in all, lying has more risks attached to it.

“Yes, I suppose so, sir,” I decide to say, voice as blank as my expression.

“Open it.”

I do as he asks, pulling off the lid and letting the objects inside spill onto my bed.

Dumbledore gives the pile a once over before turning back to me,

“You will return them to their owners with your apologies. I shall know whether it has been done. And be warned; thieving is not tolerated at Hogwarts.”

He puts his wand away while I assess him: every action and every word he has taken since he stepped foot into my room.

So he is one of those people. I expected more of him.

“Yes, sir,” I acquiesce after a long moment. He did not leave me much of a choice if what he has said so far is true. I have no way of determining if he _has_ lied. All in all, the situation could have been worse. Again, the damage suffered is only the undeserved assault against my pride.

“At Hogwarts, we teach you not only to use magic but to control it. You have—inadvertently, I am sure—been using your powers in a way that is neither taught nor tolerated at our school. You are not the first, nor will you be the last, to allow your magic to run away with you,” Dumbledore admonishes gravely, “But you should know that Hogwarts can expel students, and the Ministry of Magic—yes, there is a Ministry—will punish lawbreakers still more severely. All new wizards must accept that, in entering our world, they abide by our laws.”

“Yes, sir,” I intone blandly.

Putting back the items I forcibly reappropriated into the box from whence they came, I take the time to consider my next action. Somehow, I must amend the negative impression I have left, if only to make my life easier.

Yet, Dumbledore is only a professor, no? He said so himself. Why would I bother catering to someone whose influence would minor at most? Why did I even come up with the idea that I have to make nice with him?

_His reach is hardly minor._

If Dumbledore is not the Minister—if there is a Ministry it follows logic that there would be a Minister—then why bother? The man would only be around for the duration of my school years and I would leave him behind when I graduate. 

Then, an even more pressing matter comes to mind,

“I haven’t got any money.”

I did not mean to say that out loud. Surely, I did not say that out loud. I have a feeling _my_ reputation is the one falling through the floor instead of Dumbledore’s like I had speculated earlier.

Again, why should I care? It is only natural that I should ask. He has not explained in the slightest how I would attend his school. He certainly did not lie about magic, but that does not mean he has not for other aspects. These thoughts that crowd my brain do not feel like mine.

The headache lurking at the back of my mind takes the opportunity to introduce itself with overwhelming force.

_Where have I seen this before?_

“That is easily remedied,” Dumbledore rummages through his unusually deep pockets, unaware of the pain assaulting all my conscious senses, he pulls out a leather pouch full of something, “There is a fund at Hogwarts for those who require assistance to buy books and robes. You might have to buy some of your spellbooks and so on secondhand, but—”

I take the offered pouch and peer inside, pulling out what looks to be a large, shiny, gold coin. My vision is slowly becoming slightly blurry at the edges so I can not quite tell if the gold is genuine. It hurts too much for me to finish a straight thought. I could tell Dumbledore to leave, no? If I tell him, I am not feeling well, he would not be the type to insist. Especially if I legitimately feel as if I will keel over any minute.

The gold _is_ real, right?

_Bite it. If it leaves marks, then it is definitely gold._

“Where do you buy spellbooks?” I interrupt, hoping that Dumbledore would speak faster and use fewer words. 

Thankfully, I am sitting on the bed so if I were to collapse, I probably would not hurt myself. I should not ask Dumbledore to leave, it is better for me to figure everything out so he would not have to visit again. I am decidedly against his presence invading my life any more than it has to.

“In Diagon Alley—”

Diagonally? Is he serious right now? Dumbledore’s expression is serious enough for me to believe in his words.

“I have your list of books and school equipment with me. I can help you find everything—”

“You’re coming with me?” I try not to let my despair show. 

“Certainly, if you—”

If he means to come with me, then he will take me to this Diagon Alley with him right after we finish speaking. Statistically speaking, the chances of him coming back another day for this excursion is very low. 

Since I highly doubt I can walk in a straight line right now, I should dissuade him from this course of action. I am intelligent enough, I can find my way by myself once I feel better.

“I don’t need you,” my choice of words is poor, I am well aware, unfortunately, my mental faculties seem to be declining because I can not fish better alternatives out of the goo my brain is melting into, “I’m used to doing things by myself, I go around London on my own all the time. How do you get to this Diagon Alley—”

Catching Dumbledore’s disapproval, I quickly amend myself,

“Sir.”

All of what I have said so far is true.

_Please catch my ‘leave quickly’ vibes._

Exactly, whatever it means, I completely agree with it.

The next few minutes pass in an agonizing and hazy blur. I remember next to nothing of what is said except the location of the entrance. Clutching the envelope I was given like how I wish to cradle my head, I do not repeat the mistake of nodding after the first terrible attempt. So I should find this place called the Leaky Cauldron, a place on Charing Cross Road, that does not sound too difficult. I might not remember the directions Dumbledore gave, but I can always ask someone later. 

Perhaps I should have gotten him to write it all down.

Why did he not think of writing it down for me? Does he think a normal child eleven years of age would correctly and accurately be able to reproduce that? Ordinarily, I would have no issues, but my luck happens to be horrendous today.

"You will be able to see it, although Muggles around you—non-magical people, that is—will not. Ask for Tom the barman—easy enough to remember, as he shares your name—"

I twitch, drawn out of my zoned out state by the mention of my name, an instinctual response. 

God, is he _still_ talking? How long has it been? Five minutes? Half an hour? My sense of time has been shot to hell.

“You dislike the name ‘Tom’?” Dumbledore stops—oh, blessed silence—his monologue to question.

Do I? I do, do I not? Tom is such a boring and common name. I deserve a unique name that matches how special I am. Except I _do_ like the name Tom; it is short, easy, and to the point. In fact, I am thankful I did not end up with a name like XÆ A-XII, I would not even be able to discern how to pronounce it if that were the case. Special names mean teachers will inevitably pronounce it incorrectly at least once, if not forever.

But let us go with the truth that ceased to be true six seconds ago for the sake of saving time on explanations. Somehow, complaining of a headache, the knee-jerk response to answer to my, and an unusually sudden change of mind does not fit quite as nicely into six words as,

“There are a lot of Toms.”

I realize my mistake of uttering my reply too quietly soon after the words left my mouth, but Dumbledore seems to have heard them all the same. I really must make sure he leaves quickly so I can do something about my head. It feels as if another brain has decided to grow in my tiny, cramped bone cage that people like to call a skull. Is that not funny? I think it is hilarious.

“Was my father a wizard? He was called Tom Riddle too, they’ve told me,” the question is pulled out of me as though someone else is speaking in my place even though I have not thought about my parents at all throughout this uncomfortably long encounter.

Was my body always this tiny?

I receive an expected response,

“I’m afraid I don’t know,”

Of course, Tom Riddle Sr. was hardly famous among wizards. Why would anyone know right now? Was? That implies he is dead. But he is not dead, not yet. I have never met my father—he is not my father because I already know my father; I still live with my parents—nor do I know any information about him. Then how? How am I so sure he is still breathing?

“My mother can’t have been magic, or she wouldn't have died,” I say, sounding plaintive even to myself. Why even bother bringing it up? Of course, she had magic, _I know this_ —do I?—so there is no point.

“It must’ve been him.”

No, no it really was not. It was Merope who had magic—why do I know my mother’s name when none of the orphanage staff who actually met her are privy to that information?

I changed the topic so I could stop my tangent riddled—ha, am I not funny?—with headache induced delirium,

“So—when I’ve got all my stuff—when do I come to this Hogwarts?”

But I already know the answer to that too, it is the first of September, like every year before.

“All the details are on the second piece of parchment in your envelope,” Dumbledore reassures, “You will leave from King's Cross Station on the first of September. There is a train ticket in there too.”

Wonderful, I wonder what running through a seemingly solid wall would feel like. It was described to be similar to water, no?

Dumbledore holds out his hand again for me to shake, marking the end of his visit. Unless he intends to shake my hand and sit back down again.

“I can speak to snakes,” I tell him with deadly seriousness the same way I would reveal being able to see dead people, “I found out when we’ve been to the country on trips—they find me, they whisper to me. Is that normal for a wizard?”

Thankfully, for my continued sanity—I certainly do not feel very sane right now—I can not see the dead.

We both paused in our unusually lengthy handshaking.

“It is unusual,” Dumbledore says eventually, “but not unheard of.”

Then he looks pointedly at the hand that I forgot I was holding. I drop it quickly and sit back down on the bed before I fall over so I could engage in a staring contest with him. 

I lose by blinking first and Dumbledore has already opened the door,

“Goodbye, Tom. I shall see you at Hogwarts.”

Since when did he move so quickly? I am not about to complain since I can finally try and sleep off this pounding migraine. Stashing the envelope and leather pouch full of strange money underneath my mattress, I pull the blanket over my head. It did not help as much as I hoped it would.

Right. I can deal with all of this tomorrow or when dinner is served, whichever comes first.

Perhaps Dumbledore drugged me?

I am grateful that unconsciousness comes swiftly.

* * *

Opening my eyes to a darkened room, the last bit of light from the setting sun hits me square in the face as I stare at a very unfamiliar ceiling for what must be forty thousand, one hundred fiftieth time if I looked at my ceiling exactly ten times every day for the past eleven years. While I do remember this unremarkable ceiling, this might as well be the first time I am seeing it. Which is both false and true at the same time.

“Well, pardon my profanity, but I am fucked ten ways into Sunday and that would be an understatement. However, child prostitution is not my ideal job but if what I remember is true, then being a dark lord is.”

Tom Riddle is a genius that comes around once every few centuries, if not millennia. Fortunately for the world at large and unfortunately for my continued survival, I am Tom Riddle while not being him at the same time.

It is complicated.

So, did I miss dinner yet?

**Author's Note:**

> The dialogue in this chapter with the exception for the one at the end, are all pulled word for word from Chapter 13: The Secret Riddle of Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. I do not own those words. I used them to demonstrate a point where canon has not changed to provide contrast.
> 
> (Also, yes references. I love them.)


End file.
